I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Did I suppress my voice
Or surrendered its urgency to voice?
My grief is my own, I let it be or let it be gone?
Who do I tell?
That’s the new question.
So distant and divided is my soul,
It would nearly take a day to just say hello
To even my most intimate mate.
I might abandon words
Would the telling be told more easily then?
Would the saying taste more soulful then?
I could make you the balm for my body,
perhaps embalm you with my body.
The question still stays.
Would your leaky skin hold its memory?
Desiring this man’s art, desiring that man’s scope
“You’re my home”…that desirable lie, each time’s charm.
My self-confidence measured out in teaspoons
Served to your egotistical, egomaniacal, ego-clad politics
Could give you…
the illusion of truth.
A scandal lurks under my skin
potent in its every pore.
My infinite love, My seminal rage.
Unfolded, you would break into branches
Fall futile like autumn’s leaves, unroot rootless like brute’s folly.
कोई खिड़की इसी दीवार में खुल जायेगी
मैं आसमान को घर आने का न्योहता छोड़ आऊँगी
अंजानो से पूछती, अंजानो में ढूंढती
किसी दिन अपने ही रंग में ढल जाऊँगी